


Memories of Fire

by linndechir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they cross the Helcaraxë, it is not anger that keeps Fingolfin warm, but memories of times when his brother seemed to have at least some love for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written a while back for a tumblr prompt, “Fëanor/Fingolfin, remember me”. I don't know how I went from “I could write a fluffy scene in Valinor” to “let's make Fingolfin miserable.”

As they set up camp for a short rest – without the light of the Trees it was impossible to tell how much time passed, so they simply walked until their legs gave out, then rested until the cold became too unbearable to sit still – Fingolfin walked past shivering bodies and angry faces to rejoin his children. He had long given up on encouraging words, for what was there to say? That the ice would eventually end? That they were getting closer, that it wasn't far anymore? That a better future awaited them beyond the Helcaraxë? He did not believe any of those things, and empty lies would not give his people any more strength.

But as long as they were angry, they kept going. They all knew who was to blame for the horrors they were facing, and although the last thing Fingolfin wished for was another kinslaying the moment they reached Middle-earth – he preferred not to think about what would happen the next time he saw his brother – he did not begrudge his people their anger. Anger was the only thing that warmed them on the ice. The true danger came when resignation set in. He had seen it in too many faces already, the fire of their anger slowly dying down until empty eyes stared into the dark night and their spirits fled from frozen, starved bodies. Those eyes haunted him in every waking moment and even in his fitful sleep, for all he saw in them was a reproach – they would never have been here if not for him, for his stubborn insistence to follow the brother who had betrayed them all.

But though he wished that his own fury would burn as hot as the ships Fëanor had torched, the thought of Fëanor's betrayal only made him feel cold and bitter. He _was_ angry – angry that after everything, after his own oath, after leading his people to follow Fëanor againts his better judgement, his proud brother still had not trusted him. Had thought him so dangerous that he had left him behind to face either the endless ice or the return to a home that most likely would not have them anymore. But that anger was too mingled with pain and disappointment to keep the cold from crawling through his body into his mind.

As he huddled up with his family – what was left of his family – for what meagre warmth they could give each other, he closed his eyes, and the images that filled his mind were not of bared swords at his throat and burning ships on the horizon. He did not try any longer to resist his memories, not when they were all he had.

Memories of a time when he had been desperate for his brother's love, and a time when he had yearned for his acceptance, if only for father's sake. What made it worse was that there had been times when he had dared to hope that his brother had at least some affection for him as well. Times when Fëanor would smile at him or talk to him on his rare visits to his father's house. Times when Fëanor did not react with scorn when Fingolfin asked him to stay a little while longer.

One of those days, when Fingolfin had still been barely more than a boy, Fëanor had kissed him, a brief kiss only, but hot as fire, probably nothing more but a whim on Fëanor's part to shut his brother up when he spoke too much of love and a kinship Fëanor never felt, but it had inflamed Fingolfin with thoughts that would never have occurred to him otherwise, thoughts that refused to leave his mind even in Fëanor's absence. 

It had happened a few more times after that, when Fingolfin asked his brother to stay a bit longer, or at least to give him something to remember him by if he was leaving again. And soon enough Fëanor had not bothered to stop at kisses, had dragged him into his room to give him everything he had ever dreamt of and still left him wanting for more. His brother was like a storm that left Fingolfin gasping and shivering, overwhelmed and feverish almost, his nerves on fire from every caress, every kiss, every thrust. His skin was aflame with the bruises Fëanor's fingers dug into it, even more so with the gentle touches that soothed them, and which hurt all the more because they felt as if his brother cared.

He didn't know why Fëanor did it, why he would love someone in body if his heart despised him, but he had never found the strength to reject him. He should have known something was wrong when his brother stopped touching him, when his resentment seemed to turn into actual hatred. But he had convinced himself that it was better that way, had barely indulged himself with memories of Fëanor's love in Valinor. It had felt like a betrayal of his wife to think of another when he was with her, but now he clung to those thougths with all the desperation of a dying man.

Fingolfin shivered with guilt as much as he did from the cold, hating himself for dreaming of the one who had caused all this suffering around him. He had tried so often to replace his longing with anger, with hatred, with scorn, and yet the memory of Fëanor's hands on his thighs, his lips brushing over Fingolfin's face, kissing his cheeks and his jaw and his ears, his breath ghosting over his skin in quiet moans, was the only thing that kept Fingolfin warm as ice winds froze his lashes, tried to freeze the very breath in his lungs. 

He could not imagine that anything would warm him up ever again but the heat of his brother's body, wrapped around him like a roaring fire, reaching into him and filling him down to the core with warmth. But in those nights on the ice, clinging to the few memories his brother had not begrudged him, he somehow knew that even if they ever made their way to Middle-earth, he would never feel that fire on his skin again.


End file.
